Charlie and Doug were swept into the torrent in a rush of fossils and floodwater.
"Charlie!" I shouted, heart hammering, scanning the churning chaos. “Doug!”
But they were gone.
Chapter 8
Frank
* * *
Title: Don’t sit on the fence
Date: Wet Season 1983
* * *
They reckon land out here’s all about dust, sweat, and cattle. Bullshit. It’s about fences. Who owns what. Who gets to say this inch of dirt is theirs and that one aint.
Back in 94, I needed the south boundary pushed out a few paddocks. Nothin flashy. Just enough to feed a hundred extra head and stop my stock from gettin bogged in that goddamn gully every wet season.
Problem was the southern ridge was marked as protected. Bloody greenies said it was sacred soil. Some rare bush frog habitat bullshit. They’re frogs. Who gives a shit? Ya can’t eat frogs. Ya can eat cattle, though, and I needed that damn fence.
I put it to the council, but the bastards voted it down, 3–2. Councilor Harris was the holdout. Clean-cut bastard with his stupid clipboard and fancy suit, acting like he was mayor of Australia or somethin.
So, I went to the other two. Said I’d pay their fuel bills for a year, throw some cash at their kids footy clubs and demanded another vote. Next vote passed 4–1 in my favor. Funny how fast blokes forget their conscience when it’s rainin money.
Harris kicked up a stink. Called for an inquiry. Said I’d bribed them. He told Councilor Nigel Stanton he had proof and was takin it to the Southern Star newspaper.
He didn’t, though. Not after his brakes gave out drivin down Mount Milton. Car rolled twice and his neck snapped like a twig. Harris didn’t talk no more.
For the record, I didn’t cut his brakes. Don’t know who did. Don’t care. But I reckon Stanton was shittin himself through that police inquiry.
Point is, I got the fence I wanted.
And the damn frogs hopped off. Or they didn’t. I didn’t give a shit. Never saw one anyway.
Koolaroo got what it needed.
Thats what matters.
You boys need to learn that. Sometimes, you gotta find a way to make shit happen.
Loyalty can be bought.
Secrets can be buried.
Just don’t get caught with dirt on your hands.
* * *
Maybe I should’ve told you that years ago. I could’ve stopped you idiots from sittin on the damn fence rather than avoiding makin decisions all the damn time.
* * *
Better late than never, I guess.
* * *